The Inspector's New Groove
by LesMisLoony
Summary: Rewritten in story form. Silly Javert has gone and made some dangerous enemies, and they will have their revenge. Incredibly stupid, and when have I written a parody that wasn't sickeningly OOC?
1. A Series of Explosions

A/N- Remember this? Well, it's baaaaack! Beware.

Disclaimer- I don't own LM, sadly.

The Inspector's New Groove

It was a dark and stormy night. Ooh. All was sort-of-not-really quiet in Paris, seeing how it was Paris, the city that never sleeps. Or was that Saigon? Or maybe it was somewhere in the United States. Was it Albuquerque? New Orleans? Chicago? Ah well.

Anyway, we take you to one particular area. Here can be found a police station. In the police station can be found a heavily-sideburned inspector who is currently filling out papers. That's right. Boring job, isn't it? Outside this police station, however, something interesting is happening. A beloved… that is, evil… street gang is loitering. Now, I know what you're thinking. _Why is a street gang outside a police station? _My answer: _Shut up, I'm telling a story._

A few doors down from this police station is a conveniently placed café where a group of frat boys is meeting to discuss building a barricade in the streets and overthrowing the government. Now that sounds like fun, doesn't it? Even more fun than loitering outside a police station. It makes one wonder what our street gang is thinking…

But let us return to the inspector. As he was filling out papers in the police station, the gang outside was getting bored. The ventriloquist and the unsung Hercules, these being Claquesous and Gueulemer, began to thumb wrestle. The old innkeeper and the thin man, these being Thénardier and Babet, had spitting contest. The devilish dandy, Montparnasse, fell asleep. Devilish, huh?

The peacefulness of the street was shattered when Claquesous shouted; "I win!"

"You cheated!" responded Gueulemer.

"No he didn't," Babet volunteered. "I was watching the whole thing."

Thénardier glared at him. "You were not!"

"Was so!" cried Babet.

"Were not!"

"Was not!"

"Were so!" Thénardier snapped. "He was watching!"

"Yeah, I was watching and Clacky didn't cheat," Babet declared triumphantly.

Claquesous's eyes probably widened, but it didn't matter seeing how no one could see his face. "_Babet_!" he hissed.

Thénardier grinned maliciously. "Did you say… Clacky?"

"Uh…"

Claquesous grabbed a rock and hurled it at Babet. This rock, however, missed its target and went crashing through the front window of the police office.

"What the… JAIL!" cried Javert's voice.

Thénardier, Babet, Claquesous, and Gueulemer ran away. Montparnasse would have run away with him, but he was dreaming about the fifth song on the Original Broadway Cast recording of Les Misérables by Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg.

Javert rushed out into the street. "WHO DID THAT?"

"Huh?" Montparnasse muttered, waking up. "Wasn't me…"

"Wait…" said Javert slowly, "You're Montparnasse, dangerous and hardened criminal! JAIL!"

With that, he dragged the young dandy into the station and threw him into a cell.

"Listen," Montparnasse said loudly, "Normally I wouldn't care about this, but it's my night to bring home the bread for the gang, if ya know what I mean."

"The gang! I hope they starve!"

"Hey now…"

"What?"

"There's ladies you're condemning there."

Javert snorted. "Ladies in the Patron-Minette?"

"Well, not technically IN the Patron-Minette, but we're responsible for feeding two young girls and their mother," Montparnasse explained.

"The wenches have certainly gone without food before. I'm sure they can survive one more day without."

"Wait! I know you didn't just insult my mistress and her family! That's MY job… and her father's… and the rest of the gang…"

"Do shut up," Javert said, locking the cell door.

"This means war!" Montparnasse shouted.

Javert rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm terrified."

At this moment something down the street exploded. Javert, leaving Montparnasse in the cell, ran out the door screaming, "Disturbing the peace! JAIL!"

Let us return to the students in the café. As the Patron-Minette was breaking the station window, they were going over their ammunition.

"Here," the blond leader Enjolras said, "Put the barrel of gunpowder next to that empty table over there…

"Um… that table isn't empty…" the thoughtful Combeferre protested.

Enjolras sighed. "It is empty of a useful or even working mind. Anyway, he's passed out… the gunpowder will be perfectly safe there."

"Dis could kill us, you dow dat, dod't you, Odjolras?" Joly exclaimed, rubbing his nose with the tip of his cane.

"When the drunk is passed out, he is not a danger," insisted Enjolras.

"Oh, sure he isn't." Laigle muttered.

"Just put the barrel there!" Enjolras demanded.

Courfeyrac placed the barrel of gunpowder next to Grantaire and the students all took a seat as Enjolras leapt up onto a table and began to make a speech.

Grantaire awoke. "Ow… my head… OOH! Gunpowder!"

"My friends," Enjolras cried, "We will soon have enough powder to…"

"Oops…" Grantaire said as he knocked over a candle.

As the smoke cleared, Enjolras and Grantaire looked around to find that the other Amis were buried under what used to be part of the ceiling of the café. They heard muffled groans and voices.

"Ow! By siduses hurdt!" Joly moaned.

"Ugh… what will the ladies think of a black eye?" muttered Courfeyrac.

"I'll bet this never happens in Poland…" said Feuilly.

"Just my luck," sighed Laigle.

Combeferre's voice declared, "I'm sure there's a deeper meaning to this…"

"Yes, Combeferre, there is!" Jehan exclaimed. "The fact that only part of the ceiling fell while we were planning a revolution means that we will only accomplish part of our purpose! I should write that down…"

"If I should die before I get out from under this mess, someone please tell Cosette I love her!"

"I didn't know Marius was here!" Bahorel said.

Enjolras and Grantaire were, amazingly, the only two who weren't under the part of ceiling that fell, seeing how they were closer to the door. _How does that work_, you ask. My answer: _See above_.

"Um…" Enjolras said.

"That was close," Grantaire added.

The door flew open to reveal a very angry inspector Javert. "Disturbing the piece AND destroying public property? JAIL!" he screamed.

Javert dragged Enjolras and Grantaire down to the station and threw them into the cell that Montparnasse was in a moment ago. He didn't seem to notice that said Montparnasse was no longer there.

"Listen, Monsieur," Enjolras said. "I really do need to leave…"

"Why, pray tell?" Javert demanded.

"He wants to overthrow the government," said Grantaire.

"Oh, well in that case…" Javert said sarcastically. He unlocked the cell door.

"That was easy!" Grantaire cried.

"Grantaire… I don't think he's serious."

"I'd let the murderer out before you two!" the inspector declared.

"What murderer?" Enjolras asked.

It was then that Javert noticed that Montparnasse was gone. "CURSE YOU, PATRON-MINETTE!"

With that, Javert rushed out into the street to find the devilish dandy, leaving the cell door open. Enjolras blinked.

"That was REALLY easy," said Grantaire.

They left.


	2. CARPE HO RAS

Deep in the remains of the Café Musain, or at least right by the door, as it has already been pointed out that that part of the ceiling failed to collapse in the explosion, Enjolras and Grantaire are holding a meeting. Or rather, Enjolras is holding a meeting while Grantaire... well, drinks. What do you expect?

"That man tried to thwart my revolution!" the marbled leader of the ABC Society fumed. "He had no regard for the people!"

Grantaire responded by emptying the carafe in front of him in one fell gulp.

"I mean, even telling him that I had to lead a revolt… any decent citizen of the republic would have understood! He just… ooh, I'm so… so…"

"Mad?" Grantaire volunteered.

"You bet your absinthe I am. That stupid, ugly, fat… _hairy_…"

"Absinthe…" mused Grantaire.

"I just wanna… Grrrrr! What would make that… that… _filth_ just furious?"

Grantaire considered this. "Ask the absinthe..." he decided.

"I could burn down the station," Enjolras continued. "I could…" he blinked. "Grantaire?"

"Eh?"

"Did you just say 'ask the absinthe'?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do tell me what that means," Enjolras said with remarkable patience.

"We could poison him."

"And I suppose, my dear little drunken sop," said Enjolras bitterly, "that you just keep a cupboard of poisons in the café?"

"Not _in_ the café…"

"And in a minute you'll just pull open a secret compartment and hand me a bottle of cyanide to take out that pathetic inspector?" Enjolras continued.

"Well, no, you'd have to-"

"And then you'll just…"

"WOULD YOU LISTEN TO ME?" Grantaire finally shouted.

The fearless leader was startled. "Um… okay."

"Thank you," said the winecask. "Now, do you want to kill that inspector or not?"

"Yeah…"

"Then come with me," Grantaire said simply. He got to his feet and went out into the street. Enjolras was a little confused, but his newfound loathing for Inspector Javert was much stronger than his disdain for Grantaire, so he followed him.

Out on the street, Grantaire used a streetlamp and his monkey ancestry to climb part way up the front of the café and press a few letters on the CARPE HO RAS sign, which is normally outside the Corinth, but we can allow this one little plot hole. OOC-ness, by the way, does not count as a plot hole.

Grantaire spoke the letters as he jabbed at them. "C… A… R… A… P… H… E…"

"Did you say 'carafe'?" Enjolras called from down on the street. "That's not how you spell it, winecask!"

"Hush, pretty-boy! I have to say the passwords!"

"Passwords?" Enjolras repeated.

"You messed me up!" cried Grantaire. "Now I have to start all over again! Um... C… A… R… A… P… H… E… I solemnly swear to you that I am drunk."

"You…" began Enjolras. He was interrupted when Grantaire jumped down off the wall, falling straight toward him.

Before he could land splat on the street, however, a portion of it opened, and Grantaire and Enjolras went plummeting down a hole, followed by Enjolras's screams of, "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH DIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEUUUUUUUUUUU!" and Grantaire's ecstatic cries of, "Whee!"

After a prolonged fall they landed on a huge mattress.

"Where the monarchy are we?"

"My wine cellar slash secret lab," Grantaire said casually.

Enjolras blinked again. "You have a secret lab?"

"Well," Grantaire sighed, "I toy with the powers of absinthe in here. I've developed a few potions for shape shifting and, of course, I keep my poisons here."

"You have _poisons_?" Enjolras gasped. A simple blink could not convey the surprise he was feeling at this particular moment.

Grantaire frowned at him. "Um… yah."

"In that case, I'm sorry for every time I've called you winecask, waste of space, drunken sod, or my dear little-"

"I don't mind that one," Grantaire interrupted.

Enjolras's eye twitched.

Grantaire went over to a huge cupboard full of identical bottles, all labeled with a picture. He began rifling through the containers. "This one's got a skeleton on it. I think that means poison," he called back to Enjolras.

"Okay then, wineca… Grantaire… how will we _give_ Javert this poison?"

"I've got that part all figured out," Grantaire declared. "All we have to do is hand the fellow a plateful of chimichongas that have cyanide instead of bean dip!"

Enjolras was quiet for a moment. "Chimichongas?" he said at length. "That's Mexican food."

"Of course!" Grantaire said triumphantly, "No gypsy-born obsessive lawman can resist Mexican food!"

"Oh, of course," Enjolras repeated. "So… how will we _giv_e him a plate of chimichongas?"

"Don't worry, gorgeous. I've got it all figured out."

The scene fades out, Enjolras looking more than slightly disturbed.

The scene fades in to Javert filling out papers or something in the station. He was not a very happy Javert because he couldn't find Montparnasse and forgot to go look for Enjolras and Grantaire. There came a knock on the door and the muffled sound of giggling. Javert sighed, crossed the room, and opened the door to reveal… to reveal… nothing. Javert looked left. No one. Javert looked right. No one. Javert looked up. No one. He looked down. A plate of chimichongas was sitting on the stoop with a little note.

Javert picked up the note and began to read aloud. "To Inspector Javert, with love, the ABC Society?" He frowned at the plate. "Well… it _is_ Mexican food…"

Every bit of the food was gone in three seconds flat.

Javert went over to his desk and sat still for a second, looking content, then suddenly passed out.

Enjolras and Grantaire rushed in.

"Good plan, Grantaire!" Enjolras exclaimed. "Wait… did I just say that?"

"So," Grantaire smiled, "does this mean you'll reconsider that whole 'straight and chaste' thing?"

"Not quite. What do we do with the body?"

Grantaire frowned in thought. "We could-"

He was interrupted, however, when Javert sat up.

"What was I doing?" he muttered to himself. "Oh, filling out papers or something. Right…" Javert noticed the students. "What? It's those idiots who just escaped prison yesterday!"

As he spoke, Javert's sideburns disappeared and he began to grow thinner and thinner. The students said nothing, but watched in part amusement and part horror as something strange happened to the obsessive gypsy-born lawman.

"You should be jailed, you know that?" he said threateningly as his hair turned from gray to blonde and his eyelashes became suddenly full and thick. "You students think…"

Enjolras and Grantaire found themselves staring, shocked and mortified, at a beautiful lovely lady with Javert's voice.

"…that you'll win the world… well, I, for one, find your General Lamarque to be quite the fool…"

Enjolras looked significantly at Grantaire and jerked his head toward Javert. Grantaire shrugged. Enjolras made a pummeling motion. Grantaire nodded, scuttled over to Javert, and punched him in the nose.

"I hate you," Javert said as he passed out.

The moment his overly made-up face hit the table Enjolras exploded. But not literally. That would be sad. "A whore! Grantaire! He's supposed to be dead!" he fumed.

"Yeah…" said Grantaire. "Weird."

Enjolras looked at the drunk suspiciously. "Grantaire… let me see the poison bottle."

Grantaire shrugged and passed Enjolras the vial. The reborn Apollo frowned down at the label, then suddenly threw it at Grantaire's head, shattering it against his unusually thick skull. "This isn't a picture of a skeleton!" he raged. "It's a STARVING HOOKER!"

"Oh…" said Grantaire. "Well, I said I _thought_ it was poison. I never said I knew it was poison. Double vision is a side effect of absinthe, you know."

Enjolras glared at him with an unbridled fury that would have made all the king's horses and all the king's men quake in their boots. Even though horses don't generally wear boots. Grantaire didn't really notice. He was used to it. "Take the body and throw it into the Seine!" Enjolras hissed.

"Fine, fine," sighed the drunk.

Grantaire put the Javert-whore into a large brown sack, which he slung over his shoulder. Enjolras glared viciously after him as he left the station.


	3. The Pub in the Rue Something

Grantaire is sneaking down the street with a sack over his shoulder. In this sack is the Javert-whore. He is well aware of Enjolras's orders to dispose of the unconscious body by way of the Seine. In fact, he repeats these words to himself just in case: "Dump the whore, dump the whore, Enjy said to dump the whore..." However, as we all know, constant repetition of one phrase will not necessarily help make us aware of it. In fact, as Grantaire's mind wandered from his quest, he began to devise a tune for the chant, and eventually he had turned it into a drinking song.

"Now," Grantaire said aloud, "to find somewhere to test this song."

It was not long until he found a little pub on the corner of two streets with French names that began with the word "rue," which is French for street. But the reader is probably aware of this. Grantaire went into this pub and seated himself at a table. A waitress brought him a few bottles of wine, and within an hour he was as unconscious as was the whore in the sack at his feet, if not moreso.

Another fellow in this pub is known to the reader. A young gentleman, hardly older than a boy, lounging at a nearby table noticed the sack by Grantaire's chair. With an expert eye he began judging its weight and possible value. Casually getting to his feet, the young man took a step toward Grantaire and coughed softly.

The drunk did not respond.

The young man coughed slightly louder, and Grantaire responded with a particularly noisy snore. The gentleman started to walk away, but turned suddenly and cried, "Whoa!"

Grantaire still made no movement. Satisfied, our gentleman lifted the bag, grunting slightly under its weight, and threw it over his shoulder. In a matter of moments, he dissolved into the crowd on the street and was not seen again.

* * *

"Hey! Come on, monsieur, wake up!"

The words seemed to be coming through a warm, heavy fog. Grantaire chose not to respond.

The fog was suddenly lifted, and Grantaire sat up, gasping. His head and shirt were soaked. A waitress stood by him with an empty pitcher in her hands.

"What could have possibly been important enough for you to do that?" he raged.

She scowled at him. "I just thought you should know, monsieur, that a young gentleman with black hair and a flower in his buttonhole has walked off with your luggage."

Grantaire did not understand her. He looked around the pub, then at the frowning waitress, and decided to leave.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked.

She continued to glower. "You've already paid."

"Ah," said Grantaire. "Then I'll be going." He got to his feet, and reached under his chair for the sack with the unconscious whore.

It was gone.

"Where the heck is my bag?" Grantaire shrieked at the waitress.

She smashed the glass pitcher over his head and went away.


	4. Demon Whore

Deep in the labyrinthine and very smelly depths of the sewers of Paris, two girls and a man-woman were arguing with a bearded man to whom the reader has already been introduced. The man-woman, who was technically and physically female, although at first glance (and second and third) this could hardly be ascertained. (S)he was tall, large, red-haired and mustached, and the reader, having certainly read _Les Misérables_ by Victor Hugo, will no doubt recognize the Thénardiess, or Madame Thénardier. The two girls looked rather alike, though the younger and shorter of the two had brown hair, and the elder had black. The bearded man, obviously Thénardier, had gray hair... I think. So if only a blond were present, they'd have the whole spectrum of hair color all in one tunnel!

"Mother," the elder daughter was saying, "I want to move back to the Gorbeau place! The... um... view... was so much better there!"

"What's wrong," Thénardier growled, "are you too good to look at the sewer walls?"

"And steaming piles of crap?" added the younger girl.

"Azelma," her mother said warningly.

The brunette crossed her arms, rolled her eyes, and stuck her tongue into her cheek like a typical irritated teenager. "_I_ know why Éponine wants to go back to the Gorbeau place," she said softly to the wall.

"'Zelma!" hissed her sister.

"And why is that?" asked the father, although the original statement was clearly directed at the wall, and not at him.

Azelma smirked at him, and then at the horrified expression on Éponine's face. "Because," she said slowly, "she liked _the view_ better."

"We know that much, thanks."

"Because," Azelma said again, "she liked the view next door."

"What are you talking about, girl? There was nothing next door but some half-witted boy... Ah."

"It's not true!" Éponine said quickly. "Father, you know she's lying!"

Azelma, abandoning her air of indignation, began dancing around the tunnel and chanting, "Wait till Montparnasse finds out that Éponine don't love him!"

"And why not?" said a low voice.

Everyone was immediately as still as a statue... except that their hearts were beating and blood was moving through their veins and their chests were rising and falling and Azelma hadn't even heard the voice anyway because she was still dancing and chanting. So actually, no one was really still at all.

"HEY!" the voice bellowed.

_Now_ things got still. Azelma and Éponine, in fact, looked horrified at what they saw. Thénardier, on the other hand, seemed pleased, if not a little irked. The mother wasn't really paying attention anymore. In fact, she had wandered off somewhere in the sewers and was never seen again.

"Éponine..." the owner of the voice said, "What's all this about you being unfaithful to me, hmm? After I was good enough to put you and your family up in this little abode? After I brought you this present?" He heaved the heavy sack from his shoulder onto the floor of the sewer, where it landed with a slight splash.

Completely forgetting her shame at Azelma's words, Éponine clapped her hands and squealed, "Ooh, 'Parnasse! What is it?"

"I don't know," the thief said, for indeed he was the owner of the voice. "I just now stole it from some drunken idiot at a pub."

Azelma huffed. "Papa! Why don't I have a lover who brings me presents he stole from a drunk man?"

"Because you're ugly, my dear," said Thénardier.

Azelma turned around and stalked off into the blackness. "I'm going to turn you in to Javert!" she shouted over her shoulder.

"WAIT!" Thénardier shrieked, dashing after her into the dark.

A moment passed in silence.

"Well," said Montparnasse, "open the thing. I wanna know what it is just as much as you."

Éponine complied. However, after peering into the bag she bent up quickly and smacked Montparnasse across the face.

"What the— you little slut!" he shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, _I'm_ a slut!" she cried, pointing at the bag. "What on earth are you thinking, bringing me something like that? It isn't funny!"

Rather confused, Montparnasse pulled the sack open. "Ooh," he said, "I think I'll keep this present for myself."

Inside the sack he had stolen from the drunkard in the pub was an unconscious whore. She was quite pretty, with blonde hair and thick eyelashes. Even as you read this sentence she began to stir, and slowly opened her brilliantly green eyes, which somehow looked violet in the strange lighting of the sewer. She glanced about, her shapely lips twisted into a pretty pout, and then looked up at Montparnasse, who swiftly straightened his cravat.

"Good evening, my dear," he said softly, offering her a hand.

"What?"

The prostitute's lips had parted, forming this word, but the voice did not belong to her. Or, at least, if there was any justice in the world, it shouldn't have belonged to her.

"You!" she shouted. "You're Montparnasse! You're that same little dandy who escaped yesterday! Where am I? What am I doing here?"

The deep voice, obviously masculine, continued to come from that little mouth. Her blonde eyebrows had drawn together, and fury flashed through the violet-green eyes.

"Oh my God," Éponine breathed. "It's a demon whore!"

"A demon prostitute?" repeated the young girl. She scrambled to her feet and began casting wild glances around the sewer. "Where?"

"No..." said Montparnasse, "I don't think it is."

"You, thief!" she barked, "You... You've kidnapped me! That's it, isn't it? You were angry with me for trying to jail you, and now you've kidnapped me!"

Montparnasse squinted at the girl, then took a step closer. "In... Inspector Javert? Is that you?"

"Of course it's me, you half-wit!" the little whore shouted.

"You... you don't..._ look_... like Javert."

The girl glared at him, her eyes flashing emerald. "What do you mean, I don't _look_ like Javert? And you'll refer to me as 'inspector'!"

"Um..." Montparnasse said, for lack of anything more eloquent, "do this." And he waved his hand in front of his own face.

The girl's fiery gaze rested on him a moment longer, but she finally huffed and raised her hand in front of her eyes, waving it as Montparnasse had done. The sight of thin, pale fingers and smooth, oval nails seemed to startle the young prostitute. She glanced at her shapely arm, then down at her narrow waist and long legs. Panicking, she pulled forward the front of her low-cut dress and peered at her own body, then let out a masculine shout. "What are THOSE?"

Montparnasse had moved slightly closer and was looking as well. "God, I wish you weren't Javert," he breathed.

"INSPECTOR Javert!" the girl bellowed.

"Either way."

The girl was scowling at him again. "You did this to me! You whiny thief! You did this to me!"

"Stop, stop, stop! Inspector... Inspector, honestly, how could I have turned you into a woman? I mean, really, if I had the power to turn an ugly man into a beautiful girl, do you think I'd be hanging around with that?" Montparnasse said reasonably, pointing to Éponine.

"Oh, that is it!" she shouted, stomping away and muttering to herself about whores with men's voices and hateful lovers.

The prostitute continued to scowl at him.

"Very well, monsieur, just tell me what you remember. How did this happen to you?"

Sulking a little, the girl began to think. "Well," she said gruffly, "I remember... I remember you! I... I locked you in a cell... and you were angry... and you... YOU TURNED ME INTO A PROSTITUTE!"

"We've been over this, monsieur..."

"And then... then, you kidnapped me and brought me here!"

"Why would I kidnap a prostitute?" Montparnasse cried.

The girl narrowed her eyes. "Oh, as if you don't know."

"Is that all you remember?"

Pensive, the girl put tapped a finger against her chin. "No... I remember the revolutionaries... the stupid students... and something about Mexican food... OH! They did it! The students did this!"

"Normally," Montparnasse sighed, "I would never give a group of college boys credit for turning a lawman into a gorgeous whore, but considering I stole this sack from one of them, and a drunken one at that, I'd say absinthe had a hand in this."

"Absinthe? What do you mean?"

"You don't know what absinthe is?"

The girl huffed again. "Of course I do! I'm not an idiot!"

"Uh-huh," Montparnasse said skeptically.

"As soon as I get back to the station, I'm throwing you in jail!"

Montparnasse nodded. "You do that."

"Oh, go away, con! Your time will come!" she huffed. "I'm going back to the station to get a respectable overcoat, or something to that effect. Then, I shall find those imbecile students and make them pay. Let them shake in their boots, the blond one and the drunk, for their time has come... I will have them!"

The whore got to her feet and marched off into the sewers.

"Um... mademoiselle? Er... inspector?" Montparnasse called after her. "Do you know where you're going? Are you sure you won't get lost in these sewers?"

"Oh, please!" she shouted back over her shoulder. "You just don't want me to get back above ground so I can throw you in jail!"

And with that the little figure disappeared into the blackness.

Montparnasse shook his head sadly. "Idiot."


	5. Always Hug the Gamins

The character formerly known as Javert, now a pretty whore, marched through the sewers of Paris, her nose in the air. "Oh," she huffed, "'you'll never find your way in these terrible sewers, monsieur! You could never survive these horrors!' Ha! I am an inspector! As such, I know my city as well as I know the back of my hand!" She glanced down at the dainty hand in the place where a rough, masculine hand had been before. "Oh..." she murmured,"right."

"Still," she continued in her man's voice, "that insolent brat thought I would be lost here, in these silly little tunnels of his! How ridiculous!" She stopped and glanced around. "Wait... where am I?"

A shadow moved along the wall.

"Um... who's there?" Javert cried, her voice as high as a normal girl's.

The ominous shadow made no response but to grow larger... and larger... until... a little gamin turned the corner.

"D'you wanna hug, lady?" he asked, his big eyes shining.

"What? A hug, for _me_?" said Javert.

The gamin nodded and opened his arms.

"GET LOST!" Javert bellowed. The boys scruffy hair blew back from the force of the shout.

Screaming, the gamin turned and fled.

"That little streetrat," muttered Javert. She put her head down and marched forward, grumbling various curses on Montparnasse, the students, and the gamin as she went.

Suddenly, a body was lying in the muck in front of her. Javert froze and looked around.

She had stumbled onto a thieves' camp.

Slowly retreating, Javert held her breath in hopes that the villains would not wake. She had managed not to wake the three and was almost far enough away to break into a run when the gamin from earlier appeared and waved to her.

"Shh," Javert cautioned, putting a finger to her lips.

The boy found a small coin in his pocket and made as if to hurl it onto the nearest sleeping thief.

"No, no," hissed the whore, shaking her head violently.

He smirked at her, nodded, and threw the coin.

Javert clamped her eyes closed and held her breath.

Nothing.

She opened her eyes and looked at the sleeping thieves. None were disturbed. The gamin seemed a little put-out, having just thrown his only money into the muck for no apparent reason.

"HA!" Javert barked.

The thieves leapt to their feet as the boy dashed away, giggling madly.

"Drat," sighed Javert.

"Oy!" one of them groaned, "What're you laughing at, then, Gueulemer?"

"Didn't say nothing," said the largest of them.

Javert felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked down to see that it had apparently dissolved into blackness. "What's this?" a voice hissed in her ear. She turned and saw no one.

"Well, well, well," said the thin one. "Were you looking for a bit of a party, then, m'dear, coming all the way down here?"

"She musta knowed we was lonely for some company!" added the big one, Gueulemer.

The shadow's arm wrapped around Javert's waist. "She's certainly a pretty one. I haven't seen you around, darling. What's your name?"

Javert's voice had abandoned her the moment the unwelcome hand had rested on her hip.

This was probably incredibly fortunate.

"Let's show her a bit of fun, shall we?" the thin one suggested.

"No," said a new voice from behind them. "She's mine. You lot back away, now."

To Javert's surprise, the arm slid away from her waist and the others backed away.

"Come on, lad!" the thin one laughed, "We just wanted a few moments with her!"

"Why d'you always get the pretty ones, I wanna know."

Javert felt a firm hand on her shoulder guiding her away from the thieves. The moment the others were out of sight she whirled around to face her new captive.

It was Montparnasse.

"I told you you'd not make it long without me," he smirked. "Those men almost... er... had their way with you."

"Oh," said Javert as she fainted.


	6. Double Quandary

A/N- Hahaa! I'm rereading Words of Love, just to entertain myself, and _man_ is that some terribly written Sue-ful fanfiction! And I thought it was my magnum opus!

* * *

Deep in the labyrinthine sewers of Paris, a thief called Montparnasse stood nervously over an unconscious whore.

Now, we must remind the reader that it is relatively... or rather, extremely... uncommon for the devilish dandy to be described as "nervous" in the presence of a whore, and especially an unconscious one. It is, in fact, far more common for him to be completely self-confident in such a situation. However, the circumstances, as the reader certainly recalls, were somewhat out of the ordinary.

This whore, the reader will remember, was not a whore at all, or at least, not mentally. Physically, she could have been quite successful in her profession, but the problem remained that she was, in fact, a he. And, of course, she was not just any old "he": she was Javert, Inspector, first class. She had tried to throw Montparnasse in jail several times, and this is why the poor boy had to make such an awkward decision at this moment.

Montparnasse felt a sort of duty to this... girl... considering it was he who had brought her into the sewers of Paris in the first place. In fact, if it hadn't been for his intervention, Javert would probably still be sleeping safely in a sack under the chair of a drunk in the pub on the corner of two streets called "rue" half a block down from Jerry's Bait Shop—you know the place. Such was not the case. In his greed he had taken the bag from the drunk, and here they were. The girl had awakened, told him that she was Javert (and that he would have no luck with her, much to his own disappointment) and then she had succeeded in almost being... used... by the entire Patron-Minette. Montparnasse had intervened just in time, and, upon realizing what had nearly happened, Javert had seen fit to faint.

Now, Montparnasse did not want to leave Javert in the sewers to be "used" by anyone who happened to pass by. Nor was he entirely sure how to revive her, as the classic jug of water is unlikely to be found nearby when one is deep in the labyrinthine sewers of Paris. Thus he was in something of a quandary. It occurred to him to ask himself whether this Javert was indeed unconscious, or if the overwhelming shocks of the last few hours had, perhaps, stopped her poor shriveled heart and caused an early death.

It was then that he felt extremely awkward.

He knew somehow that a dead person can sometimes be revived by having air forced into their lungs from another's. Perhaps he had seen this performed, or perhaps he found a CPR manual that had been sucked through some sort of a space-time continuum vortex wormhole thingy. In any case, this idea surfaced in his mind.

Putting his mouth over that of an unconscious whore was not what concerned Montparnasse. It is likely that he had done this before. What concerned Montparnasse was that the whore was, as has been clearly stated, Inspector Javert.

So he continued to puzzle in the darkness.

* * *

"Well," Enjolras asked irritably, "it is done?"

Grantaire frowned a little. The waitress had told him that a young gentleman with black hair and a flower in his buttonhole had taken the whore, which was really not something he wanted to think about in depth. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to feel the wrath of Enjolras if he told him what had happened, and it was unlikely that the Javert whore would ever be seen again. He heaved a great sigh before answering that the whore had been disposed of.

Enjolras smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent."

* * *

Montparnasse poked Javert with the toe of his boot. She did not respond. Every moment he spent puzzling was a moment in which the man sunk further into death. He rolled his eyes, turned Javert over onto her back, opened her mouth, and leaned close.

Their lips touched, and Javert's eyes flew open.


	7. Slightly Slashy

Éponine awoke, gasping.

"Shut up, will you?" her father muttered, throwing something at her.

It bounced off of her head and rolled away into the darkness.

Azelma awoke, screaming. "THAT WAS THE MOST HORRIBLE THING I'VE EVER SEEN IN ALL MY WAKING LIFE!"

"Sleeping life," Éponine corrected her. "Bad dream?"

"Yeah."

"It couldn't have been worse than mine."

Azelma squinted at her. "And what was your dream, then?"

"Well... it was about Montparnasse. And you know Inspector Javert, right? I dreamed that Montparnasse saved Inspector Javert from being... well, gang raped."

"That's not bad," Azelma snorted, "it's just weird."

"And creepy. What was your dream, if you're so smart?"

Azelma leaned forward dramatically. "Mine was about Montparnasse too. I dreamed that Montparnasse had to... _kiss..._ Inspector Javert!"

"Oh, right. As if _that_ would ever happen."

"It could!"

"Could not."

"Could so!"

Both girls were silenced as heavy objects, hurled by their angry father, bounced off of their heads and knocked them out cold.

* * *

"For the last time," Montparnasse called over his shoulder; "it was _not_ a kiss!"

Javert continued to wipe her lips against the hem of her dress, pausing every moment or so to spit or clean her tongue with her sleeve. "I had heard things about you, boy," she said between gags, "but I never imagined you could be this far gone! I told you quite clearly that I am Inspector Javert! I have no romantic interest in you, or in any man!"

"Or woman," Montparnasse sighed. Javert failed to hear. "Look, m'sieur, I'm just going to lead you out of here, all right? That way you can get back to the station, find those students, and have them change you back."

"And throw you all in jail," the whore added gruffly.

"You know," said Montparnasse, "I don't even care. I just want this to be over."

"Very well," Javert agreed, getting to her feet. "Let's go."

* * *

Enjolras smiled again. He had been smiling quite a lot lately. "Ah," he sighed. "Nothing could ruin my good spirits today, Grantaire. Nothing at all. After all, Javert is dead and I can conduct my revolution in peace."

Combeferre and Jehan puzzled over this last phrase.

Marius frowned at him. "I thought Javert was rather nice. He helped me out a few days ago, anyway. But I forgot his name."

"If you forgot his name, how'd you know that's who they were talking about?" Courfeyrac asked.

"What?" replied Marius.

Courfeyrac shook his head sadly.

Enjolras leapt onto a table. "Let me hear everyone say it!" he cried. "Inspector Javert is dead!"

"Inspector Javert is dead!"

Grantaire said nothing, but resignedly nursed a half-empty bottle.

Enjolras hopped from table to table, finally planting both his feet on either side of Grantaire's absinthe. "Say it, winec— um, Grantaire. Say it!"

"Don't wanna," the drunk muttered into the bottle.

"What? Come on, just say it! 'Inspector Javert is dead'! I need to hear those words."

Grantaire looked blearily up at him. "Do you need to hear all those words exactly?"

"WHAT?" the blond hissed, dropping to his knees and bring his face hardly an inch from Grantaire's. "You mean he's _alive_?"

"Well," Grantaire slurred, "he really isn't as dead as we might have hoped."

Enjolras brought his face even closer. Their noses were touching. "Tell me you're lying."

Grantaire smiled stupidly, kissed Enjolras's nose, and collapsed into a drunken slumber.


	8. The Light and the Tunnel

"There it is, inspector," Montparnasse said proudly, pointing to the distant point of light that represented freedom.

The sight of the exit seemed to restore Inspector Javert some of her dignity. She straightened her back and lifted her head, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt and bodice. When Montparnasse raised an eyebrow she said haughtily, "I am a representative of the law, even when others cannot recognize me. I must present myself as such."

"You know," Montparnasse said, "that you're a prostitute, right?"

"You've made that very clear," Javert answered stiffly.

"Well," grinned Montparnasse, an evil glimmer entering his eyes, "are you registered?"

At once Javert dropped her lordly demeanor and crossed her slender arms insecurely over her bodice. "What?" she hissed.

"Have you registered?" Montparnasse repeated. "After all, prostitution is illegal unless the woman is registered with the police."

"I _am_ the police!" Javert said quickly, "And I'll register myself!"

"Without paperwork?"

For once, Inspector Javert could not think of a retort.

* * *

"All right, you were sitting in this chair when you last saw the sack. Now, _where did it go_?"

Grantaire shrugged. "The woman said something about a buttonhole... or a flower... with black hair."

Valiantly restraining himself from beating Grantaire senseless with the bottle of wine the drunk was clutching to his chest, Enjolras groaned and summoned the nearest waitress.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, but have you seen this man before?" Enjolras asked, pointing to Grantaire.

She wrinkled her nose disdainfully and nodded.

"Did he have a sack under his chair?"

"Yeah," she said irritably, "and I told him when I woke him up, it was a handsome boy with black hair and a flower in his buttonhole what took it."

"Why would someone steal a sack?" Enjolras wondered aloud.

The waitress shrugged. "Maybe he was one of them thieves what you hear about all the time. Stealing stuff and girls and all that."

"A thief... with black hair and a flower in his buttonhole? That's an odd contrast. Do you think you could give a more detailed description, mademoiselle?" And, upon noticing the glare she was giving the now-snoring Grantaire, he added, "Please? For me?"

This seemed to change her mind. "I s'pose I could try to use s'more words, if you like, m'sieur."

"That would be lovely, dear."

"Huh. Well, he was a sorry creature. He was scarcely more than a child, a youth of under twenty with a pretty face, cherry-lips, glossy dark hair and the brightness of Springtime in his eyes. He was smooth, effeminate, graceful, strongly built, pliant and ferocious. He wore his hat with the left-hand brim turned up to display a lock of hair in the fashion of 1829. His tailcoat was of excellent cut but frayed. Hair waved and pomaded, a slender waist, a woman's hips and the chest and shoulders of a Prussian officer, cravat meticulously tied, a flower in his button-hole, a murmur of women's admiration accompanying him and a blackjack in his pocket—such was this flower of the underworld."

Enjolras blinked. "Um... mamselle?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you please repeat that? I think I'll need to write it down."

"Don't worry about it," said a voice from behind Enjolras. The marbled leader of the revolution spun around and found Marius seated at a nearby table.

"What was that?"

Marius grinned vacantly. "I know that description. I've heard of him. That's Montparnasse. He's a friend of this loony family that used to live next to me. I think they all live in the sewers now."

"You're sure," said Enjolras.

"Absolutely," Marius smiled. He then turned to the waitress. "Listen, lady, I'll pay for their drinks. And I'd like a little something to drink myself."

"What'll it be, sweetie?" the woman asked listlessly.

Marius read carefully over the menu. "Hm," he said at length. "I suppose I'll have chocolate milk."

"An excellent choice, sir," said the waitress, gathering up his menu.

"All right," said Enjolras, "we're off."

"Good luck!" Marius called as Enjolras dragged the sleeping Grantaire out of the cafe on the corner of two streets whose names began with "rue."

* * *

Javert was walking down a long tunnel toward a bright, warm light.

Suddenly, the light was blocked by a shadow that Javert recognized.

"Cop!" Montparnasse hissed, pulling him backward.

Javert shrugged her thin shoulders. "How is that a problem? I can just ask him for help!"

"No," Montparnasse said, "you can't! You're an unregistered prostitute, remember? They'll throw you in jail!"

"With this voice?" barked Javert. "They'd know it was me right away."

Montparnasse rolled his eyes. "I hate to break it to you, but not everyone is as believing as I am. There are those who don't understand how the powers of absinthe can change a person."

"What do you mean?" Suddenly, Javert whirled around to face him, defiance and anger flashing through her violet-green eyes, several locks of golden hair dangling in front of her face. "You don't want me to go back at all! You want me to stay like this forever just so I can't throw you in jail!"

"No," Montparnasse insisted, "I really don't care about being thrown in jail. I can always get out."

"Liar! I have no reason to believe you," Javert cried.

"Hey!" shouted the policeman at the end of the tunnel. "Is somebody in there?"

"Yes!" Javert called, running toward the light. Montparnasse followed at a safe distance, watching warily as Javert pushed the door open and climbed out into the street.

Just as he suspected, the officer grabbed the girl before she could speak, dragging her away.

"Idiot," Montparnasse sighed.


	9. Return of the Gamin

A/N- Gah! It's been, what, three months since I updated this poor darling? I do have multiple excuses: precalc and piano Federation and Christmas presents and my job and rehearsals for the musical revue... but I'll just apologize profusely, hope none of my readers have given up on me, and post this tiny little chapter in hopes of adding another quite soon. And in response to reviews: How can they determine that Javert is a whore? I dunno. The thought crossed my mind as I was writing it, but I figured it's a parody, so there's no real need for everything to make sense. I'm treating prostitutes as a social class or something.

* * *

Enjolras frowned at Grantaire. "We have to go... in the sewers?"

"Yup," his comrade nodded. "That's what Pontmercy said, isn't it?"

"I suppose. Why didn't we bring him along to show us the way?"

"Dunno," said Grantaire. "S'pose that would have been wise."

"Ya think?" Enjolras cried.

"Well, he was enjoying his chocolate milk. You wouldn't wanna take his chocolate milk away, now would you? Milk builds strong bones."

Enjolras deigned not to acknowledge any of these phrases. "Very well, then, we go into the sewers."

And the two did so.

* * *

A small boy was seated in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees and rocking back and forth while muttering to himself. What the crap was that black smoke stuff that totally tried to eat Mr. Ecko?

The boy did not say that. It was simply a statement by the Authoress. But she doesn't appear in this fic. So we shall continue.

Upon seeing two strangers approaching, the boy leapt to his feet and asked the taller of the two if he'd like a hug. The blond man responded by kicking the gamin aside. "We're on a mission, boy," he said curtly.

"Enjy!" cried the other man, obviously Grantaire. "Give this poor thing a break! I mean, didn't you hear what he was saying a minute ago?"

"Something about black smoke and an echo."

"No, that part that was in argot. It wasn't in the story, because the Authoress forgot most of the argot she taught herself for that Montparnasse story, so she just left it to the reader's imagination."

Enjolras shrugged. "I don't speak argot."

"Well, I do!" said Grantaire indignantly. "This boy has had a rough day. Isn't that what you were saying?" he asked the gamin.

The gamin nodded and said something else in argot that the Authoress had no desire to transcribe, it being nearly midnight.

"Poor thing! Seems he's had a little trouble with a demon prostitute earlier today," Grantaire said aloud. "Really, little guy? Tell me more."

Enjolras perked up. "A demon prostitute? Which way did he go?"

The boy crossed his arms and glared at the marbled bronzed whatever Hugo said young man.

"He, uh, doesn't really wanna talk to you," Grantaire said.

"Oh?" retorted Enjolras, eloquently.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have kicked him."

Leaning down to the boy's height, Enjolras found a Louis d'or in his pocket and held in at the gamin's eye level. "I suppose, young man, you've never held this much money in your hand at any given time."

The boy's eyes lit up.

"Just tell me where the demon prostitute went, and this entire coin shall be yours."

The child clapped his hands and pointed.

Tossing the coin to the boy, Enjolras and Grantaire were off.


	10. Dead End

Inspector Javert awoke to utter blackness. She was momentarily surprised at the surroundings, or lack thereof, and blinked several times just in case. Her super-long whorelashes tickled her cheeks and nose when she did this, so she stopped.

Suddenly a neon green sign blinked on in the darkness.

YOU HAVE BEEN DIVERTED.

Javert frowned, blinked, sneezed, and continued to stare.

The sign clicked off, then on again, but the words had changed.

INSPECTOR JAVERT.

BE AFRAID.

Javert scratched her head with her long red nails, confusion filling her violet-green eyes.

The last two words grew slowly brighter, then brighter still, and Javert had to look away for fear of being blinded. The entire room was gradually illuminated, and several-odd shapes began to take form. Four or nine or something like that, to be exact.

"Very effective," murmured one of the shapes.

Another moved slightly, saying, "Id is, is't id? Id sure scared be da first tibe I saw id!"

"Inspector Javert!" the closest shape said loudly, "we have brought you here to give you a chance to confess!"

"Confess! Confess!" the others echoed.

"We will give you to the count of ten... to tell us what you did with our brave leader!"

"And the drunkard!"

Javert stared dumbly at them. "What?"

"You will not confess?" the foremost shape demanded.

"Confess?"

"Confess! Confess!" cried the group.

"What do you mean?" Javert's eyes were growing more accustomed to the dimness, and she saw a crumpled police uniform on the floor by her feet.

"Confess!" the shape said again. "You have taken our friends! Marius said so!"

"Wait... at least I wasn't impersonating an officer of the law!"

Montparnasse suddenly emerged from the shadows and seized Javert by the forearm, dragging her through the gaping plot hole.

Javert shook her head and glanced around. The two were standing before the police station. "What in the world was that?" the prostitute demanded.

"Plot hole," Montparnasse answered quickly. "They happen all the time. Basically, the Authoress put in a twist to the story, had no idea what to do next, spent months procrastinating, and then took the easiest way out. It's been done thousands of times."

"I... see," Javert lied.

"Lucky for you," Montparnasse grinned, "I swiped this."

He held out a small vial with a picture of Philip Quast plastered to the side.

"Drink it," he urged.

Javert took the potion, turning it over in her elegant hands. "This is... the antidote? The cure? It will make me myself again?"

"Sadly enough, it will."

And without further ado, Javert swallowed the contents of the bottle.


End file.
